Final battle of the Lankast War
Gesturing upward into the bright sky speckled in a sea of gracefully floating red and black blimps with a smile, the commander addressed 200 conscripts, “These dirigibles give us unparalleled superiority to the Commonwealth, you longcoats rarely have to even get stuck in.” The battle was not going well. Hiding behind the retaining wall, remainders of the 12th draftees out of Wolfstead saw their saviors begin a slow motion descent into the wheat field. Four entire combat airships obliterated in a single instant. Steam from the boiling stream below the opposite side of their cover confused the senses even further. Chaotic yelling with the nearly constant whistle of rocketry and heavy concussion of cannon fire blended with sharp metallic scents, omnipresent steam obscuring vision, and the barely suppressed bile in the back of their throats. The short retaining wall was the only piece of cover aside from the few trees that remained, forming the lowest point before a small drop off into a stream. It was a communal farm, stretching for miles behind them. Rolling wheat mostly had been set ablaze. Brown longcoats, and a few black, punctuated the cratered landscape. Corpses of the 12th, the 15th, and some of the 2nd artillery laid sprawled out. Bodies frozen and contorted like mannequins cruelly tossed from the sky, broken and often in pieces. Brant held the lip of his kettlehelm, pressing the padding above his head into his skull. This was his first week on the front, after a quick and seemingly decisive battle the 12th had managed to take the farm. Masses of conscripts, driven by their Enforcer, crashed into the short blue Commonwealth line. In half an hour their conical helms of their foes had been taken as war trophies. Miles of farmland, all the way to the tiny border wall and small bridge had been newly acquired by the Autocracy. Arrivals of reinforcements boosted morale even more than a quick first victory. After days of celebration, no one thought much of the patrol a few hours late. In those fateful hours, no one thought much of the single native rider cresting the hill opposite to them. The Cogs, sinister, looming men in stahlhelms with perforated iron face guards attempted to rally the conscripts for a further investigation, but the black coated Cogs were mostly ignored. That is when the sky came crashing down. “If you don’t have your air support, our ground-based artillery outnumbers those blue bastards 5 to 1, while they are still trapped in the past by lack of innovation, your Kaiser has insured you will receive only the newest in gunpowder technology.” With a flourish, he pulled a tarp away from a pile of rockets. Mortars or some form of artillery smashed their camp. The farmhouse was only a burning facade. They streamed out, preparing for an attack, the Enforcer’s whip stealing their fear away. What they couldn’t have known was the rest of the enemy had already positioned themselves opposite the stream. Rains of arrows and bolts were easily deflected by the upturned tower shields. Advancing as a block, the conscripts began moving to the stream, a few guards already taking cover behind the low wall. Cards lay in the grass at their feet, useless bastards weren’t even paying attention. The Enforcer’s whip calmed them. In a single moment, incorporeal force broke the assembled troopers. “Those brown coats are heavy!” Assembled conscripts shouted affirmation. “Within your hallowed uniform, metallic plates are sewn in to save your lives." He paused to increase the effect of his next quip, "Still, I recommend you try not to get stabbed.” From his podium, the commander grinned at the laughter of his soldiers. It was only visible because of the mist. Cylindrical absences of dreary mist snaked through their formation, violently pummeling and punching holes in Brant’s friends and comrades. He felt no shame in breaking away to run for cover. Those that weren’t thrown upwards and back had clean circles punched all the way through their torsos. Cursed powers devastated the formation and suddenly the projectiles were once again a very real threat. “These poor wretches are ruled by Cursed,” Brant couldn’t stop himself from hissing with his cohort. “Remember, they are few and far between. Their princes likely won’t even show their faces. Besides, reports of Cursed outside the Autocratic States say they are as weak as their soldiery.” Lightning arced past the troopers, brilliant flashes as quick as their natural counterparts. From the earth to the sky, the surges struck their air support down as it moved forward. The deadly onslaught only stopped as rockets from batteries of their support began to rake their opposition. More flashes of electricity and artillery churned the ground. Heat from the Cursed bombardment began to evaporate the stream. Precious seconds of inactivity came to an abrupt end as a yelp further down the line snapped focus back into the present. “They’re here!” Conical helms atop blue cloth fell from the wall on the conscripts. Mutual surprise quickly devolved into an unbalanced melee. Commonwealth troops landed on the heads of their foes, both sides attempted to react, with conscripts jabbing upwards with their short swords and the enemy stumbling or vaulting to get footing in order to respond. They were at a disadvantage but seemed to be excellent combatants when they could actually get their footing, expertly reforming themselves in contrast to the terrified and disorganized conscripts. “While you are certainly valuable, trust in your commanders and shun heroism. I will see all of you again on the battlefield.” From Brant’s peripheral, they began coming across the bridge. While the wall gave them an advantage, the small bridge would allow an actual fight. A quick shout brought others who were not engaged to face the enemy sneaking across the bridge. Another order brought their shields to bear. Forming a small line of five men. Their enemy’s eyes widened. As one, the five conscripts charged onto the bridge. Battering into a deep blue cloth shirt sent their knot of adversaries spilling over one another. A short jab turned the cloth a deep red. The rest back away and ran. Solid deep blue lines filled the hilltops in past the bridge. Briefly wondering why they ran, Brant realized they weren’t looking at him, they were looking past him. Artillery had stopped on either side. A few dead Commonwealth soldiers lay on the retaining wall. His comrades were cheering. Wiping blood from his face, he turned. Red and black banners flapped in the quiet air, this was no longer an ambush, the Autocratic States of Humanity brought an army. After hours of truce, the Farmstead Treaty officially ended the war. Brant looked on as the Cursed princes Leon and Belfort signed the treaty the next day.